


Saints, Sinners & Handholding

by kuriadalmatia



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Angst and Humor, Break Up, Developing Relationship, Drama, Established Relationship, F/M, Family, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-11-17
Updated: 2012-06-06
Packaged: 2017-11-07 02:51:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 15,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/426098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuriadalmatia/pseuds/kuriadalmatia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dave wasn't quite sure how it all happened. One day, Penelope Garcia was just a trusted co-worker with a daffy sense of humor and naughty innuendos. The next? They had this little post-case ritual that seemed like the only normal thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Saints, Sinners & Handholding

**Author's Note:**

> TIMELINES/SPOILERS: Season 5.
> 
> ARCHIVING: my LJ, AO3m, DW & FFNet... anyone else? Please ask first.
> 
> WARNINGS: Profanity, adult situations, sexual situations
> 
> Feedback always welcome.
> 
> DISCLAIMER: The Mark Gordon Company, ABC Studios and CBS Paramount Network Television own Criminal Minds. Salut! I just took them out to play and I promise put them back when I'm done. I'm not making any profit just trying to get these images out of my head.
> 
> VERSION: Ahhh… vino. Started April 2010. 
> 
> COMMENTS: Inspired by the S5 episode where Rossi calls Garcia, "Kitten." Unbetaed.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of Foyet's attack on Hotch, Rossi and Garcia end up in Hotch's hospital room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoiler's for S5's "Faceless, Nameless"

_**"I'd rather laugh with the sinners and cry with the saints. The sinners are much more fun."** **Billy Joel** _

Rossi wasn't quite sure how it all happened. One minute, he was flashing his badge at the head nurse at St. Sebastian's—snarling that HIPPA didn't mean fuck-all because Aaron Hotchner was his best friend and he was with the goddamn FBI—and the next minute, grasping Aaron's limp hand and going through every damn prayer he knew.

He even called Father Jimmy to come down because, God damn it ( _I'll confess next time about that, Lord_ ) they needed every advantage that they could get. There was a parade in and out of Aaron's room; if the man had been awake, he would have been thoroughly pissed to be on display like this.

"Oh!"

Her gasp was unmistakable. Neither was the crash of her oversized purse as it hit the floor. Penelope Garcia, decked out in a floral print only she could wear, held her right hand to her mouth and her left trembling at her side.

Aaron, of course, didn't move. Three cheers for morphine. Because if awake, Aaron would be slurring how he was just fine and how, really, all this was no big deal. How they shouldn't be sitting here, fussing over him, when they should be tracking down Foyet.

Rossi immediately moved to her side, picking up the purse (Christ, what the fuck did she weigh the damn thing down with?) and shuffling her over to his vacated chair. "Drugs have him out of it," he told her with a reassuring pat to her shoulder. A stupid and obvious statement, but worrying like this did that to him. "But he would be glad that you're here."

She sat down heavily, tears spilling unashamedly down her cheeks. Of the team, Rossi supposed, only she was allowed to shed them and no one think lesser of it. Sad that in the FBI, tears were still considered sign of weakness, even when weeping over the horror of the nearly-slain.

"Hey, hey," he said. Three ex-wives meant experience dealing with crying women. But Penelope Garcia faced down the worst of the worst on a daily basis. Tears were not something that just…happened.

Her hand tightened on his. Christ, she had an iron grip. "He's not supposed to be…" she trailed off, looking away briefly before meeting his eyes. "This is doesn't happen to Hotch."

But she wasn't looking for comfort. She wasn't looking for some bullshit 'everything's gonna be okay' line. She was angry. Furious. There was a certain glint that a woman got in her eyes when her man was hurt and Garcia had it. If Foyet had walked into the room just then, there was nothing on the Earth that could save that bastard from whatever savagery Penelope Garcia could come up with. _Hell hath no fury_ , and all of that.

"We'll find the son of a bitch," Rossi told her, not to assuage her fears but to declare his own conviction. "We will find him and we will make him pay."

"We will," she agreed.

_*****/***** _


	2. Puttenesca

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rossi wasn't quite sure how it all happened. One minute, he was in Garcia's office, telling her that it was after eight in the evening and they both needed to eat something and the next, they were back at his place.

Rossi wasn't quite sure how it all happened. One minute, he was in Garcia's office, telling her that it was after eight in the evening and they both needed to eat something and the next, they were back at his place with a pot of boiling water on the stove. He chopped onions while she watched from the counter stool with a large glass of Conti Zecca Nero in her hand.

In the years he'd been back with the BAU, he never invited the team for a meal at his place. The Kids were too good at what they did, he would constantly tell himself, and he didn't want his personal living space to be ruthlessly profiled. They showed no shame in doing it at the office; they would gleefully do it here. Rossi knew exactly what his home said about himself and his life. There were some things he just needed to keep to himself.

Garcia had no such compulsion. She was simply Garcia, and if she profiled him, it was in the light of her own unique understanding of the world.

Or so he told himself.

She was also the least likely to hold anything against him, despite Rossi being a complete ass toward her after she had been shot. The least likely to say anything to anyone, despite her blurting out the whole Galen thing to Prentiss, Morgan and JJ. Rossi had been furious about the Galens at first, but once the case had been resolved, he had stopped by her lair and had thanked her. He'd even brought her cannoli from his favorite pasticceria.

"How spicy do you like it?" Rossi asked as he scraped the onions into the hot pan. Puttenesca sauce was his default, _holy fuck I'm freaked out_ comfort food. Fifteen minutes from pantry to table, his mama had always said. Rossi had always had a heavy-hand when it came to the red pepper flakes.

"Oh, honey, I can take the heat," Garcia smiled and tipped her glass towards him. "The wine's really good."

"Glad you like it," he said, but was surprised. Most women would have fussed about the heaviness, the earthy and slightly burnt taste of it. Not every person could tolerate a tannin-heavy red from southern Italy. He turned his attention back to the sautéing onions. "You're not gonna balk at the anchovies," Rossi asked as he pulled two fillets from the small jar, "are you?"

"Anchovy away, dearest Profiler," she smiled and took another sip. "If I remember my Food Network correctly, they melt in with the E-V-O-O and you can't even tell that they're there."

Rossi paused as he rinsed the fillets. "E-V-O-O? Christ, do I even want to know?"

"Oh, honey. That's Rachel Ray for extra virgin olive oil."

"Good Lord. It's just oil where I come from."

"Of course." Garcia burst out laughing. Odd that it warmed him in a way he hadn't felt in a long time; someone truly appreciated Old School in the midst of New School Fangled Things and she was the epitome of New School Fangled Things. "And this?" she held up her glass. "Is this _just_ wine?"

"Oh hell no," he retorted as he used the wooden spoon to break up the anchovies in the oil and onions. "That's a 2005 Conti Zecca Nero, one of the best from the Puglia region of Italy."

"Where the Rossi clan is from?"

Rossi smiled. "Something like that. I never know when Uncle Giuseppe's gonna stop by so I keep the family wine well stocked."

"Family wine? You family has a vineyard?"

"No, no, no," he laughed as he stirred. "It's what we call the stuff we have on hand for when family visits. And. Well, that's what you are, right?" Rossi looked up and saw the scarlet blush across her pale cheeks. "Hey."

"We're family," she told him, with the same ferocity he had seen in Aaron's hospital room days before.

Rossi added the tomatoes next. She watched him cook. He wasn't unnerved by the silence; it helped him relax. Once the sauce was complete and the pasta drained, he served them up and they sat down at the table.

Wives Two and Three had taught Rossi all about dieting. Carbohydrates. How Italian cooking was the worst for their girlish figures which was kind of stupid if he really thought about it. Garcia was a woman with curves in all the right places.

In the Fifties, she could have been a pinup girl, right up there with Jane Russell.

His last two wives had been obsessed with size zero. Maybe that was where he had gone wrong…among other things. Rossi would take curves any day of the week.

Garcia wasn't shy about sprinkling the freshly shaved pecorino cheese over her pasta and sauce. It wasn't an obnoxious amount, as if she were trying to mask the taste of the anchovies or counter the heat from the pepper flakes. She simply didn't make a big production out of leveling the spoon or weighing the cheese in her hand to determine how much she was "allowed".

He had debated on opening a second bottle of wine since it was rare for him to entertain anymore, much less cook for someone who appreciated his efforts in the kitchen. That wouldn't have been responsible, though, because there would be no way in hell he would allow her to drive home.

The only reason to open the second bottle was because neither of them really wanted to think about Aaron still in that hospital bed or the possibility that Reid's injury would chain him to a desk for the rest of his life. The latter could be considered, in theory, the best thing for their resident genius who had a habit of getting in to trouble, but Rossi knew the younger man well. Being stuck 'back at the office' all the time would drive Reid crazy, making him feel inadequate and worthless, even if Reid's best work was usually done in front of a map or ensconced in the UnSub's journals.

 _He_ didn't want to think about why Penelope was at his house in the first place, when she had a devoted man waiting for her back at home. And if Lynch had been willing to have a 'man to man' talk over Rossi barging in Penelope's apartment at oh-God-awful in the morning (the whole thing still amused him to this day), then there would surely cyber-hell to pay if Lynch took this whole 'the acting unit chief shanghaied me back to his place for dinner' the wrong way.

He watched as she twirled the pasta against the spoon. Rossi couldn't help but comment, "You've done this before, I see."

She laughed again. "Oh, honey," apparently that was her new pet name for him, which certainly beat the others she had bestowed the rest of the team, "I've been a patron of quite a few authentic Italian restaurants in my day. None, of course, can hold a candle to your puttenesca." What she did next absolutely floored him. She rattled off a few phrases in Italian. Badly pronounced, tour-book Italian, but Italian nonetheless. He was so shocked that he didn't answer for a full minute, which prompted her to ask, "Oh my God! I didn't just curse your grandmother, did I?"

"No…no," Rossi let out a soft chuckle. "I believe you said, 'The flowers go well with the cheese. Is it time for grappa?'" He smiled at her.

She let out of slow breath and then fanned herself, obviously trying to get back that playful mood. "Well? Is it time for the grappa?"

"Sweetheart, the last thing either of us needs is grappa."

Garcia shrugged. "I guess I should have been more wary of that Rosetta Stone knockoff."

Rossi had no clue what she was referring to, but it made him think of a conversation he had overheard. "Are you ever gonna take that trip to Italy then with Lynch? I could recommend a few places, if you'd like. And teach you a few phrases that won't be insulting to anyone's grandma."

Her smile stiffened slightly. She paused.

Well, that certainly explained why she was her instead of with Lynch. Rossi held up a hand, "You don't have to answer that."

She looked away. "I hate profilers."

"Even if they make you dinner?"

Garcia shook her head slightly, " _Especially_ if they make me dinner."

_*****/***** _


	3. Couture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Dave saw how Garcia was dressed, he marched right up to her. "I will not let Foyet do this to you, you understand? He's gotten everyone else. He's not supposed to get to you."

Rossi wasn't quite sure how it all happened. One minute, he adjusting his grip on his briefcase as he made his way to the elevator, the last one to leave for the evening. The next? He saw Garcia keying in a code to her lair.

She was wearing jeans.

He blinked. He blinked a second time.

"What the fuck?" He said it aloud because, well, he could. He took in the rest of her attire: loose solid navy blue, long-sleeved top paired with sneakers. Her hair was in a low ponytail at the nape of her neck. No flowers. No streamers. No stripes of funky color.

She turned around and faced him.

No make up.

 _Oh hell no_. He marched up to her, noting how she pressed her back against her locked door. Rossi's tone was sharp, authoritative. "You. Me. Dinner. Now. I'm driving."

"You Tarzan, me Jane," she snapped back, and definitely not in a playful way. "Save your caveman shtick..."

"I've got a unit chief who is currently a textbook case for severe PTSD and another agent nearly passing out at his desk from knee pain because he refuses take anything stronger than Tylenol," Rossi interrupted harshly. "Morgan's getting up in everyone's grill about everything; you didn't hear the tantrum he threw about powdered creamer, did you? JJ's busting her ass to keep those fucking nosey newshounds from getting any dirt on Hotch because we all know Foyet's spanking off to any news about him. And Prentiss? She's compartmentalized so much, it's like a high-rise condo in her head." He waved his hand. "And now this with you? Jesus! I will _not_ let Foyet do this to you, you understand? He's gotten everyone else. He's not supposed to get to you."

Garcia's eyes were wide. Her mouth was open as she struggled to come up with something. Her declaration of "I hate profilers," was flat, dull.

"Duly noted," Rossi retorted and stepped closer.

Garcia pursed her lips. Her posture was achingly stiff. Her knuckles were white from the way she gripped her bag.

"I need to know what's going on, Penelope. I can't help if I don't know."

"I don't want your help."

It provoked the automatic mocking of, "Oh, really." Rossi then gestured to her outfit. "Don't make me say aloud what all this means, sweetheart." He took a step closer. "You don't want to talk to me? Fine. But you _are_ going to talk to someone. You know the moment that Morgan sees you dressed like this, he's gonna be demanding explanations. And when you don't explain, he's gonna take the stairs to whatever floor Lynch is on and, well, let's put it this way. Lynch will no longer be a surname, but a verb."

Her eyes widened slightly and then she shook her head. "Morgan will do no such thing."

"Your Sugar Pie Honey Bunch is never exactly rational when it comes to defending you," Rossi retorted. "In case you haven't noticed."

"I've never called him Sugar Pie Honey Bunch."

"Okay. Count Chocula. Honey Bunches of Oaf. Whatever." He shrugged and then pointed toward the elevators. "Now. C'mon. Dinner's on me. You choose the restaurant."

She narrowed her eyes. "Do you really want a tab at Komi?"

"You really think you can run up a tab that's gonna make me cry? I have three ex-wives, and you can't possibly hold a candle to their 'get revenge by spending money' antics." He paused and pointed to her outfit. "But I also know you well enough to know that there ain't no way you're gonna step foot in Komi's, City Zen, or the Citronelle dressed like you are now."

Garcia's grip loosened on her bag and then she looked away. He could see the wetness in her eyes, the effort she was making not to show her emotions. "I really hate profilers."

He touched her elbow. "We can go back to my place. I'll make you dinner. Would that be better?"

She bit her lips and then nodded. "I want the good wine."

"Of course."

_*****/***** _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I read an interview with Kirsten Vangsness in which she talked about Garcia's style, specifically for "House of Fire." I can't remember the exact quote, but she talked about Garcia wearing jeans for the episode because she was so stressed out and that Garcia would never wear jeans...


	4. Putter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dave wasn't quite sure how it all happened. One day, Penelope Garcia was just a trusted co-worker with a daffy sense of humor and naughty innuendos. The next? They'd developed this little post-case ritual that seemed like the only normal thing on the crazy train they were riding on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoiler's for S5's "Reckoner."

Dave wasn't quite sure how it all happened. One day, Penelope Garcia was just a trusted co-worker with a daffy sense of humor and naughty innuendos. Hell, he didn't understand half the references she threw out there or comprehend what she meant by gooey, wee-see-wig and tweets.

The next? They'd developed this little post-case ritual that seemed like the only normal thing on the crazy train they were riding on. Once a week, usually on a Tuesday or whenever the Team would get back from a case, he would stop by her lair on his way out the door and invite her to dinner. She would meet him at his house for puttenesca. After the third time, she began bringing the wine, citing she felt bad for 'drinking him out of house and home'. To his surprise, Penelope had excellent taste in red wine.

Tonight, however, was different. The case in Commack had been painful, the what-ifs and might-have-beens far too close to home. He knew that the comfort he usually got from whipping up his favorite dish and sharing it with Penelope would be elusive.

All the material things that Dave had worked so hard for felt hollow as did his fame and career. Feeling sorry for himself was something he was unaccustomed to doing.

So Dave knocked on her door and stepped inside. She glanced over her shoulder, smiling brightly. He smiled back, the first real one in days, and said, "I'm thinking mini-golf at Locust State Park. They're open until nine."

Her eyes narrowed slightly and she cocked her head. "Dressed like this?"

The floral frock with the short cardigan made him think 50's retro. Dave supposed it was his favorite 'look' of Penelope's. "You'll be the sexiest, best-dressed woman on the course."

"You, my dearest profiler, are a flatterer."

"Just telling the truth, sweetheart."

A grin broke across her features—damn, that smile alone made the whole Commack mess less crappy—and then she tapped a few keys. Grabbing her purse, she stood up, walked towards him, and warned him, "I haven't played mini-golf in years."

He laughed and offered his arm. "That makes two of us. I'm more of a driving range kinda guy when I can get to it. C'mon. We can grab some dinner at the snack stands and be really decadent."

She linked her arm with his and smiled at him. "Sounds like a plan."

They drove separately and once they were there, it was just as Dave had guessed: she was the only woman in a dress. As usual, she didn't seem to care and even put the golf clerk in his place for suggesting her heels weren't welcome on the course. She selected a lime green ball while he opted for the more sedate dark blue one. When they were selecting putters, he noticed that they were all righties, so he asked for a left-handed one and then gave it to her.

She beamed at him. "You keep this up, you're going to ruin your reputation as a curmudgeon."

Dave rolled his eyes and gestured towards the course. "Oh, don't worry, I'm still a curmudgeon. I'm the guy who plays to win, no matter _who_ my opponent is."

"So you're saying you're going to crush my tender ego with your mini-golf skills?"

"Crush your ego?" he echoed. "Lemme see your ID. The Pen Garcia I know would never be crushed by something as trivial as mini-golf. She'd be taking pictures with her cell phone and contacting my publicist so they can be published on my website. There may be a bit of that Photoshopping thing that you threaten Morgan with involved."

She laughed again and they made their way out onto the course. By the third hole, she was four shots over par while he had birdied all of his. "Are you sure it's not the club?" she asked as they approached the fourth tee. She waggled it at him. "I wouldn't put it past you."

"Nah. I'm just reading the greens as you take your shot," he replied as she placed her ball on the marker. "'Ladies first' does have an advantage."

"You are such a cheater!" she exclaimed and thwacked him on the arm.

"Hey! Is it my fault that social conventions dictate that you go first? No."

"Oh my God, you just channeled Reid!" She lined up at the tee.

"No need for name-calling on the course, sweetheart," Dave shot back. "But, here, if you adjust your grip and your stance a little, you may have better luck. May I?"

She nodded and he moved behind her, his arms and hands covering hers. "Thumb underneath your palm," Dave said as he adjusted her grip. "And move your feet apart just a bit." He nudged her foot with his and she complied. "Arms slightly bent. Line up the shot with your eye. Keep the head parallel to the ground. Practice swing like this." He guided her through the motion. "And there. Smooth stroke."

He _didn't_ smell the jasmine scent of her hair. He _didn't_ notice how smooth her hands were beneath his. He _didn't_ identify the light scent of faded Shalimar perfume.

He didn't.

He _didn't_.

He did.

And his dick conveniently decided to let him know just how much he had noticed. Dave was half-hard and reluctant to let go.

_Morgan will kill you._

_Hotch will help dispose of your body._

_She's way too young._

_I'm not burning bridges this time around by putting my dick in inappropriate places._

_Where was someone like_ _**this** _ _back when..?_

Dave mentally shook himself. It was stupid to go down those lines. Wife Number One had been the "expected" one. Wife Number Two, the "rebound". Wife Number Three, the "trophy". A woman like Penelope Garcia should never be labeled so tactlessly as "Wife Number Four".

He released her. He stepped back. He discreetly adjusted himself as he said, "Take your shot."

Penelope did, her ass swaying just enough to inspire extremely inappropriate thoughts about garter belts and silk stockings. Because Dave knew she would wear them—hell, they could probably be part of her daily couture—and she would look stunning.

_Down, boy! Down!_

Her ball rolled into a perfect position to make eagle. Penelope let out a delighted cheer, turned, and grinned widely. "It is so _on_ , my fine Italian Stallion!"

For the first time in _years_ , he found himself blushing. Hard. Glancing around and praying to God that no one else had heard her comment despite his ego demanding he strut around because a pretty woman had given him a compliment. Dave glanced up and saw the worry washing over her features.

"Hey, out here? I'm Dave and you're Pen. Got it? So if you want to declare to the world that I'm some kind of horse, then knock yourself out," he told her and then forced a smile of his own.

She eyed him for a moment before nodded. "I'll hold you to that."

"I'm counting on it."

_*****/***** _


	5. Dial-a-Heart Troub

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> During the first case after Morgan is promoted to acting unit chief, Garcia calls to check up on her team.

"How's Derek?" Penelope asked without preamble. She sounded worried and Dave knew she would be. Hotch stepping down had been hard on all of them, Dave included, and Morgan had huge shoes to fill.

"Oh, pulling the same 'newbie unit chief' shit that we all do when we get that title," Dave answered, adjusting the phone against his ear as he sat heavily down on the mattress.

"Like what?"

"Pulling all-nighters on the couch in the police station, thinking that _that_ shit's gonna help solve the case," he replied. "Oh, and slurping down cop shop coffee like a runner after a marathon. Don't worry, I'll make sure he doesn't do anything too stupid."

"And you?"

Dave blinked. "Me?"

"Yes, _you_ , my fine bearded chef!" Penelope paused and then asked softly, "It's not too weird taking orders from him, is it? I mean, with Gideon was with the Team, it was like him and Hotch were like Mom and Dad. They both issued orders and people didn't think much of it."

"Hotch is letting him run the show," he replied honestly. "He's not stepping on the man's toes. He knows better. He has a hell of a lot of respect for Derek, you know that. Derek's earned this."

"Derek has _never_ …"

"I'm not saying your Mocha Man or whatever the hell you're calling him now… I'm not saying that he's been gunning for Hotch's job. Far from it. He _likes_ being the run and tackle guy." Dave let out a sigh. "When you get to be unit chief, chasing idiots down an alley and kicking down doors isn't usually on the menu. It's paperwork and meetings and politics. Derek can do all those things; they wouldn't have offered him the New York posting if he couldn't. But he considers all of us Hotch's team, and he's too honorable a man to poach like that."

There were a few beats of silence and then she said, "But you didn't say how _you_ felt, David."

The use of his first formal name stopped him cold. The times they were together, she addressed him with pet names or teasingly with his SSA title. He could count on one hand the number of times she used his first name. She was reaching out to him, something that wouldn't have happened two years ago. Hell, even six months ago before the mess with Foyet changed everything. He knew what she was offering; he knew that whatever he said would never be repeated.

Dave let out a sigh. "I don't take orders from people I don't trust," he said honestly. "It's a change, but if this is what it takes to lure that bastard Foyet out so he'll make a mistake…" he rubbed a hand across his face. "We're gonna catch that son of a bitch and we're gonna get Aaron his family back."

"Of course."

"Derek's a good man," he continued. "And hopefully he respects me enough to know when I bust his balls on something, it's because he's doing something stupid."

She let out a soft laugh. "I get to hear all the gory details?"

"Sweetheart, the _last_ thing you need to hear is one agent chewing another's ass out for doing something stupid." He glanced at his watch. "It's late, Pen. We all need to be fresh tomorrow, okay?"

"Take care of yourself, David. You're the uncle of the team, you know."

"More like grandpa."

"Uncle," she insisted. "As in the really cool one who sneaks you beer and will bail you out of jail without telling your parents."

"Contributing to the delinquency of a minor," he said with mock affront. "Great."

"Don't you know it!" she teased. "Now, take your own advice. Get some sleep, Uncle Davey."

"You do the same, Miss Penny."

_**/***/** _


	6. Goth Ick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You're too pretty to dress like that."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoiler's for Season 5's "The Reckoner"

"You're too pretty to dress like that."

"What?"

"That gothic crap."

"I'm offended."

"Offended? Christ. Give a woman a compliment and she turns it around on you. Well, deal with it. You shouldn't dress like that. Ever."

"You are a closed-minded man, David Rossi."

"Closed-minded? Excuse me? You're missing the point of what I'm saying."

"You made a snap judgment on those girls base strictly on the way they were dressed."

"Because that's the point of dressing like that, Garcia. They _want_ be judged."

"So you're saying that _I_ dress the way I do because _I_ want to be judged?"

"In a way, yes. You wear your individuality like a shield. Your clothing is an extension of that. People notice you."

"You're treading on dangerous ground, Mister Rossi."

"I'm stating the facts but you're taking it all wrong."

"And just _how_ am I taking it all wrong?"

"I'm not insulting you, although you think I am. People _notice_ you. You're the woman that breezes into a room and all the other women glare at because you can pull off funky retro outfits. You're utterly feminine with a brilliant smile and confidence rolling off you in waves. Those other women? Jealous as hell because they _can't_ emulate your style and they wish they had your confidence. You turn heads, Penelope Garcia. And that's a _compliment_ , damn it."

"David Rossi, are you sweet on me?"

"Do you want croutons on your salad or what?"

"That was the most pathetic attempt at a redirection I've ever heard from you."

"…You're a wonderful woman, Pen. I'm lucky to call you a colleague, even luckier to have you as a friend. When you and I go out those days I'm not cooking? I feel like I won the goddamn lottery because I have a confident, pretty woman on my arm and everyone in the damn place knows it."

"Oh, David…"

"Croutons?"

"Croutons."

_**/***/** _


	7. Phalanx

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The evening after Haley's murder, Dave takes Hotch home and calls on Penelope to make a grocery run.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers for "100"

Aaron was an absolute, goddamn mess. Dave managed to get him washed up and in a clean shirt before they reunited with Jack. The boy asked for his mommy and Aaron just… broke. Sitting in the backseat of the sedan, Dave's best friend clutched his son and whispered, "She's gone, buddy. Oh God, she's gone."

So Dave Rossi did what he did best: took charge and issued orders, even if Morgan was technically the unit chief. Morgan didn't have the experience that Dave had when it came to this kind of thing. "Circling the Wagons" as the saying went, and these Kids would do anything and everything for Aaron. The Kids didn't like it—he swore to God Prentiss was going to deck him—but they did what they were told.

They got through the preliminary reports, the responding cops sympathetic to the situation and didn't press too hard. When the finished up, Dave drove to Aaron's apartment with Aaron and Jack as passengers.

"I have to tell Haley's mother… her sister," Aaron suddenly said.

"Morgan and JJ are doing that," Dave replied quietly, glancing in the rearview mirror and honestly surprised that Jack was dozing in Aaron's arms.

"It should be me. It's my fault."

"Don't you dare start that crap, Aaron," he warned. "What you need is to get home. Take a shower. Get Jack cleaned up a bit too. I'm gonna make you both dinner and I'm gonna be screening your calls. You're not gonna like it, I know, but this is what it is. We're gonna get through this, okay?

Aaron looked out the window, absently stroking his son's hair. "She's dead, Dave. He killed her."

"I know."

"I killed him."

"You didn't have a choice."

"He surrendered to me, Dave."

Dave swallowed, a chill racing down his spine. He licked his lips. "It didn't mean shit and you know it. He had one thing on his mind—hurting your family—and he was gonna say whatever he thought would work to complete his mission. You stopped him. You _stopped_ him, Aaron. You had no choice."

Aaron didn't reply.

It didn't take long for them to get to Aaron's apartment; traffic was thankfully light for the afternoon. Once inside, Jack made a beeline for his room and came out moments later clutching an emerald green stuffed dragon. Aaron just stood there in the middle of the room until Dave prompted him to take a shower the second time. Dave then pulled out his phone and dialed the familiar number.

There was no witty greeting, just the rushed, "Derek told me the rest. Oh my God."

"I'm at Aaron's place," Dave cut her off as he rummaged through the refrigerator, which was pretty much bare of perishable goods. "I need you to pack up shop right now and do a grocery run for him."

She didn't miss a beat. "What does he need?"

He opened up the pantry and poked through the shelves. The man seemed to live on macaroni and cheese, Cheerios and soup. Jesus. Dave grimaced. "Milk, juice, eggs, bread, American cheese," he rattled off as he found a box of dried linguini, which was next to a jar of Prego. There was no way in hell he was going to serve a grieving man and his son assembly-line pasta sauce. He listed the rest of the ingredients needed to make a decent, kid-friendly ragu. "No wine," he added as he made his way back out to the living room. "Get a box of Lipton. We'll make iced tea for dinner."

"Consider it done."

"You're best."

"Of course, I am."

He laughed a little. "Then make it snappy."

"See you as soon."

"Drive safe."

An hour and a half later, Dave was lugging groceries from Esther's trunk up to Aaron's place. It was obvious that Penelope had been crying—he envied her for it, actually—and there was that truly awkward moment when she greeted Aaron and Aaron just stared at her.

"You shouldn't have," Aaron coughed out.

"Hush," she admonished and then hugged him briefly. She knelt down an introduced herself to Jack, who hid behind Aaron's legs. "I brought coloring books and crayons. Would you like to color with me?" She looked up at Aaron. "I bet your dad is really good at it too."

/***/


	8. Kitten with a Whip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garcia was dressed to the hilt and, being nine in the evening on a Friday, Kevin Lynch must have done something epically stupid for her to end up at Dave's place.

If there was one thing that three marriages taught David Rossi, it was to think before he commented on something when a woman asked his opinion. Oh, not necessarily while on the Job because sometimes there wasn't time for civility and it wasn't necessarily the place for tap dancing around the cold, hard truth. He was known for his sharp comments and knew that the words 'insensitive jackass' were often associated with his name.

No, the 'think before you speak' rule was invoked when faced with the daunting task of rendering an opinion about a woman's hairstyle, choice of clothing, culinary experiment, and/or anything _personal_ about said woman.

Like when Penelope showed up on his doorstep at nine in the evening on a Friday night, doffed her black silk scarf covering her hair, and revealed a mass of red curls.

It reminded Dave of trying to talk down a bomber who had his hand on the trigger. One wrong word and _boom!_

So Dave relied on one of the tried and true tactics of negotiating: stalling. He invited Penelope inside. He took her scarf and coat and hung them in the closet. He catalogued her outfit of the evening—purple crushed velvet bustier with lace sleeves, black crushed velvet flared skirt, sparkling clutch purse, seamed stockings, and high-heeled shoes he had no idea how she could balance on—as well as her makeup. She was dressed to the hilt and, being nine in the evening on a Friday, Kevin Lynch must have done something epically stupid for her to end up at Dave's place.

_Shit._

Dave ushered her to the living room and watched as she sat primly on the edge of the recliner's seat. Not the couch. Not the loveseat. No, his favorite recliner. The white specks on her lap meant that she had been at a restaurant and, despite her being dressed up, it wasn't a fancy enough place to offer a well dressed woman a black napkin so as not to get the white lint on her outfit.

_Special occasion, check. Boyfriend being an ass, check. When will she see that she can do better? Much, much better?_

"May I get you something to drink?" he asked, because that would be telling on just what kind of mood she was in besides pissed off and upset.

"You're stalling," Penelope accused, her voice laced with anger yet a little watery.

"Since when is being polite stalling?" Dave countered as he walked over to his bar. "Drink?"

"Whatever you're having."

"You don't drink bourbon, sweetheart," he told her as he pulled out two wine glasses. "I have this nice red…" Dave turned around and saw the look on her face.

 _Fuck._ If he could smack himself on the forehead and not be seen, he would. _You called her 'sweetheart'._ To which his mind countered, _You always call her 'sweetheart' just like she calls you 'honey' and 'dearest Profiler.' And…you also said 'red'. Fucking great._

He set the glasses down. He walked over to her. Dave reached forward and captured a lock between his fingers, twirling it gently. Hell yes, it was an intimate gesture, but three wives meant he understood about reassurances. He released her hair and stepped back. Dave tapped her chin lightly until she met his gaze. "You look beautiful, Pen."

Tears welled up in her eyes and then she batted his hand away. "You're just saying that."

"When have you ever known me to 'just say' something?" he asked and walked back over to the bar. "Now. Do you want wine or something else?"

She answered his question with one of her own: "You're not even going to ask why?"

Dave let out a sigh as he pulled out a bottle. "Listen, Pen, men are jackasses by nature. We always say the wrong damn thing when we're trying to say the right thing. You know that."

"You always say the right thing."

It made him laugh, but it came out a bit more bitter than he'd expected. "Three alimony checks a month says I don't know when to keep my damn mouth shut."

"Oh, David."

Whenever she used his formal name, it caused him to stop whatever he was doing. His little gesture back there was intimate, sure, as was the use of "Pen" to address her. But she didn't use his full name all that often. He glanced over his shoulder and saw how she fussed with her glittery handbag. He set everything down and went over to her, pulling up the ottoman so he could sit across from her.

"You really don't want me to tell you what I think happened tonight," he told her honestly as he gestured towards her outfit.

Penelope looked away and wiped the tear that was threatening to fall. "I don't," she agreed. "I really don't." She took a deep breath. Her voice was barely above a whisper. "Do you mind if I…" She couldn't finish her sentence. "I…"

"I was just going to take a trip down nostalgia lane with Ann Margaret," he interrupted and nodded toward his VHS player. It was a lie, of course. He had planned spending a Friday evening trying to write a chapter about Foyet, not to publish but to help clear his mind. He wasn't sure why he offered up _that_ movie but then realized that there were few people who would get a kick out of such a cult move. "It's called _Kitten with a Whip_. Think _Rebel Without a Cause_ with a sassy lead woman."

She tried to laugh but it turned into a hiccup. She waved her hand and kept her eyes averted. Seven months ago, he would have stayed there and offered a shoulder for her to cry on. Now, he knew that it was better to retreat. So he did, going back to the bar, opening the wine and wondering just where that tape was.

It was going to be a long night.

Dave didn't mind at all.

/***/


	9. Midnight Sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If he thought about it, the things that Dave Rossi could do on autopilot while talking on the phone were downright stupid. He could bolt out of bed, get dressed, pocket his credentials and gun, charge down the stairs, grab his keys, get into the car, drive to Penelope's at speeds that his badge may not be able to get him out of a ticket for, and end up at her apartment door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers for "Exit Wounds."

Dave wasn't quite sure how it all happened. One day, he addressed her as "Garcia" in while in the field, Penelope while at the office, and Pen when they had dinner.

The next? He called her "Kitten" in front of a bunch of Florida sheriffs and got the Evil Eye from one Derek Morgan. Dave shrugged, grinned wickedly and said, "What? She reminds me of Ann Margaret." He knew he dated himself just by saying that, reestablishing that 'generation gap' in Morgan's mind so that he wouldn't find himself slammed up against a wall as Morgan threatened him for 'messing with his Baby Girl'.

All Dave knew was that Morgan sat on his thumbs about Garcia for six years, which meant she was fair game. Her relationship with Lynch was dying a slow death. Dave wanted to tell her that there all the signs that the relationship was over were _there_ but he didn't. He learned that lesson years ago; he would be blamed for the breakup when it had already taken place. So, he kept his mouth shut and kept vigil.

Jealousy reared its ugly head from time to time. The case in Alaska nearly sent Dave over the edge.

It was Morgan who comforted Penelope in Alaska. Morgan who stood by her side, gazing at the mountains with her before they left and reassuring her.

Dave was annoyed, of course, because over the past few months—holy fuck, had it really been _ten whole months?_ —picking up the pieces after a shitty case had become _his_ job, damn it. He'd grown used to it. _Spoiled_ , even. Because as much as he picked up the pieces of her, she picked up the pieces of him, and they put it together in some oddball way which was so complex that made a Star Puzzle something a two-year-old could figure out.

So he consoled himself with the fact that Penelope would likely come over for tomorrow night. He would make puttenesca…no. Scratch that. He'd make risotto because the last thing Penelope wasn't to see was a plate full of red sauce.

What he wasn't expecting was the phone call at two a.m.

It was Penelope. She wasn't crying. She wasn't hysterical. Her tone was quiet, distant. Dave wasn't unnerved that easily, but when she requested, "Will you just…talk to me? Please? I just need to hear something besides…what's going on in my head" sounding so haunted, it scared the shit out of him.

If he thought about it, the things that Dave Rossi could do on autopilot while talking on the phone were downright _stupid_. He could bolt out of bed, get dressed, pocket his credentials and gun, charge down the stairs, grab his keys, get into the car, drive to Penelope's at speeds that his badge may not be able to get him out of a ticket for, and end up at her apartment door.

It was an echo of the first time he was here, arriving at what-the-fuck in the morning and banging on the door. "I'm at your front door, Pen, and believe me, if you don't let in, I'm gonna make sure I wake all your goddamn neighbors."

Because David Rossi realized a long time ago, when he was freaked out about something, he was even more of an asshole than usual.

The door opened. Penelope was wearing the same red Chinese silk robe that she had worn the last time he had been here in the middle of the night. Underneath, she wore loose fitting pants with cartoonish kittens all over them. Her hair was in a tangled mess around her shoulders. Her eyes were bloodshot and puffy. Her nose was red. She lowered the phone.

"By the hair of your chinny-chin-chin?" Pen asked, but there was no humor in her voice. She stepped back to allow him inside.

Dave entered, closed the door, dropped his go bag, turned and put the deadbolt and door chain on. He then faced her, snapped his phone shut, and pulled her into a bone-crushing hug. "I never wanted you to see that, Kitten," he told her hoarsely. "Not up close. Not like that. Ever."

She wrapped her arms around him. He could feel her shaking. Dave wondered why in God's name that Lynch wasn't over here. It was situations like that when one _needed_ a distraction because it was easy to get caught up in one's mind.

Surely that idiot realized that, even if the relationship was on shaky ground. Unless…

 _Don't even think about it_ , he told himself firmly.

"You don't understand." Penelope let out a long breath and then said, "I keep seeing him. There. On the ground. And…And I kept thinking…I know what it's like to die. I wanted…I wanted the last thing that he saw to be something good. I just…I just…" She didn't finish the sentence.

"I _do_ understand, Kitten." Dave loosened his grip and lifted one hand to stroke her hair. "I really do. The last thing that man saw _was_ something good. He didn't die alone." He reached down and tapped her chin lightly. She tilted her head up. She met his gaze. "You did what was right, Penelope. You gave that man peace. Believe me, staying there and holding that man's hand takes a hell of a lot of courage. You gave him a gift. And if no one has thanked you for doing that, I'm thanking you now."

And then…she rose up on her tippy toes and brushed her lips against his. Dave's breath caught, momentarily stunned by her boldness. This was _not_ the reason he came over here. It wasn't. It really wasn't.

Then she asked, "Will you make it go away? Just for a little while?"

Dave swallowed hard. What she was asking wasn't really out of the ordinary, not when it came to the horrors that they saw on a daily basis. It wasn't the first time he'd been propositioned, and until he decided to retire again, it wouldn't be the last. There were things he wanted to say—first and foremost was "It shouldn't be me"—but he also knew that a rejection could be devastating. Women like Penelope didn't just take a chance like this. No. They didn't.

Still…"Kitten…"

"I know I'm not your type," she whispered, turning her head away.

He damned himself for being able to predict her words. Dave grabbed her chin and forced her to look up at him. "Don't you _dare_ start with that crap." She opened her mouth to protest but he pressed a finger across her lips to silence her. "I am flattered beyond words that you would consider having me, but if we're going to take that step, it's not gonna be a pity fuck."

She reached up to push his hand away but he caught it with his other and held it to their sides. He kept her silence with a hard look.

" _That_ is exactly what this will be. Trust me. I've been there and done that. You know my reputation. I've also burned more bridges in my life because of pity fucks than I ever want to think about." He let out a deep sigh and continued, "I care for you a lot, Pen. I lot. I wouldn't be over here at oh-fuck-awful in the morning if I didn't. And if this offer was on the table under any other circumstances? Okay, _most_ other circumstances? Then _hell yes_ I would take you up on it.

"But tonight? No. I can't. It's called 'transference' and if you really want to know the details about it, I'm sure Reid would be happy to tell you. But here's the one thing I know for a fact: it fucks up relationships, especially working ones.

"So here's the deal. You're gonna go back to your bedroom. You're gonna get in bed. I'm going to take off my shoes, ditch my jacket, and put my gun and cell phone on the nightstand in your bedroom. I'm gonna join you in bed, clothes on. I'm gonna hold you or talk to you or let you cry on me…anything you want except the hanky-panky. Capice?"

Penelope turned her head to the side and barked out a laugh. She swiped the tears from her eyes and shook her head. "Hanky-panky?"

He shrugged. "Or whatever the hell you kids are calling it these days."

For several moments, neither spoke. Then Penelope tilted her head to the side and looked up at him. "Most other circumstances?"

Dave smirked a little. "I've broken all the commandments except one."

She blinked and then counted on her fingers, mouthing the words. "Murder?"

"In the eyes of God, I've taken someone's life," he replied. "It was justifiable by law, sure. But when it's a sixteen-year-old kid who killed four people and decides that suicide by cop is his way out? That kid's mom calls me a murderer."

"Oh, David." Penelope grabbed his hands and squeezed hard.

"I've never committed adultery," he clarified. "I've coveted like a horny bastard, sure. But I've never committed adultery."

"I'm not married."

"You're in a relationship," he countered. "And don't give me that crap about it being 'open'. You're not a woman that I'll be willing to share with anyone." Dave let those words sink in before jutting his chin towards her bedroom. "Now, let's go to bed."

**_/***/_ **


	10. Like a Snickers ...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You son of a bitch! You slept with my girlfriend!"

"You son of a bitch! You slept with my girlfriend!"

Ten years ago, David Rossi would have plastered a shit-eating grin on his face, quirked an eyebrow, and made a smart-ass comment along the lines of, _And she loved every fucking minute of it_. He might have even tossed in a line about her finally having a "real" man.

Hell, even five years ago, he would have done that. He might have even tacked on, _Like a Snickers, I really satisfy_.

Now? He simply stared.

Dave had to give Lynch credit. The supposedly "wronged lover" timed his confrontation for the maximum exposure: Hotch and Morgan were in the kitchen getting their second cups of coffee, Prentiss and Reid were at their respective desks chatting with JJ, and the rest of the BAU teams were in-house as well. Dave had just left his office for his own cup of coffee when Lynch barged in the BAU and shouted his accusation. Everything ground to a halt.

There was a part of Dave that knew this confrontation would happen eventually. He just wasn't expecting it to be this public. And there was a huge, _huge_ part of him thankful that he _didn't_ have sex with Penelope last night. All he did last night was platonically comfort a colleague.

Dave didn't have to glance over at the kitchenette to see the murderous look Morgan was undoubtedly giving him or how Hotch's face was expressionless except for the disapproving glint in his eyes. He didn't have to look down in the bullpen to see that Reid was gaping or that little "you're unbelievable" shake of Prentiss' head or how JJ's hands had settled on her hips, ready to give him all sorts of shit.

There was only one way to play this situation: just like he would have if he was in some police station and dealing with a hysterical family member of a victim.

"Let's talk about this in my office," Dave offered and gestured toward his door. Calm. Reasonable. He wasn't going to get into a shouting match that Lynch got it all wrong, that Dave was simply comforting a friend in need, and that Lynch should have really fucking thought about the consequences of _not_ coming over there when she asked him to last night.

Penelope had explained quietly, without shedding any tears, _He's doing WoW tournament and he can't leave his party_. WOW wasn't "Women of Wrestling" like Dave honestly thought—it was the only thing that made Penelope laugh last night—but an online game called _World of Warcraft_.

Lynch's mouth flapped a few times. Clearly, it wasn't the reaction the man was expecting, so he pointed and shouted again, "You slept with my girlfriend!"

"I heard you the first time," he replied dryly. The bullpen was so quiet he didn't have to raise his voice to be heard. "Now, why don't we sit down and talk about it in my office?" He deliberately kept the command tone out of his voice, opting for his 'soothe the victim's family' cadence that worked so well over the past thirty-years.

By this time, Hotch had set his coffee aside and moved to where he was closer to Lynch. Hotch murmured something too low for Dave to hear—Dave sincerely hoped it was something along the lines of, _Get your ass up there now else I'll have security haul your pathetic carcass out of here, you fucking drama llama_ , although he knew it wasn't—and suddenly, Lynch lurched forward. Dave purposefully kept his gaze on the technical analyst. He knew Hotch was thoroughly pissed and he was going to get an earful once this was settled with Lynch.

Hotch, Dave knew, he could handle. It was Morgan, Prentiss and JJ he feared more and, God help him if those three swayed Reid into their camp.

Once Lynch got up the stairs, Dave could see that there was fear mixed in with the bravado. The other man seemed to set himself again and then marched purposefully towards Dave and then into Dave's office. Dave gestured to one of the two seats in front of his desk as he closed the door, although he was tempted to keep it open just so he wouldn't have to answer as many questions later. If he wanted to be a complete dick, he would take his seat behind his desk to establish authority and dominance. Instead, he took the chair that Lynch wasn't standing next to and sat down. He kept his body language neutral.

Lynch stared at him, his hands shaking slightly at his sides, but didn't sit down. His mouth moved a few times before finally, "You slept with my girlfriend."

"And what do you base that accusation on?" Dave asked, keeping his tone conversational.

The other man's eye twitched and he balled his fists. It took a few tries for him to say, "I-I saw you leave her apartment building this morning!"

If this was an interrogation, Dave's next question would have been, _Why the hell were you hanging around her apartment at six-thirty in the morning?_ Instead, he nodded and steepled his fingers as he leaned forward in his chair. He allowed Lynch the physically dominant position; most people didn't realize that it wasn't necessarily if you stood or sat or, hell, even _knelt_. Dominance was all about attitude and control and so far, Dave firmly held the reins of the conversation.

"Okay. You saw me leave Garcia's apartment building this morning," Dave repeated, using her last name to establish formality instead of familiarity. "Did you ask Garcia why I was there?"

"I didn't need to," Lynch spit out. He leaned forward and glared, trying to look intimidating. Maybe the guy forgot just who he was dealing with: a senior agent who stared into the nastiest of the nasty humanity had to offer. Lynch just looked like some pathetic, greasy dumbshit who thought he was tougher than he actually was. "I know all about you. What you do. How you do it."

"Did you talk to Garcia this morning?"

"I don't need to. I know what I saw."

Dave mentally sighed in relief. He had some verbal wriggle room—God only knows how Garcia would spin what happened last night when she was asked…and no doubt someone was down in her lair right now and recounting Lynch's ballsy move—so he carefully modulated his tone so he sounded quizzical. "So, you saw a senior supervisory special agent of the BAU leave the apartment building of the BAU's technical analyst this morning. You did not ask the BAU's technical analyst why one of her bosses would be at her apartment. Instead, you get into work this morning, take the elevator to the sixth floor, and accuse said senior supervisory special agent in front of the entire BAU based on your…observation?"

A few seconds passed and then Lynch paled. Dave met the man's gaze, fighting the smug smile that threatened to spread across his face. The one that said: _You do not want to play this game with me. You will lose. Badly._

At that moment, Dave's office door crashed opened, causing him to jump. Lynch whirled around but Dave stayed seated. He didn't need to look to know that there was a very pissed off Penelope Garcia standing on the threshold to his office.

"You!" she snarled and pointed at Lynch. She was shaking in anger and her voice the perfect pitch be heard throughout the office. "How _dare_ you!"

"Penny!" Lynch yelped, clearly surprised. "I was…I was…" He looked briefly back at Dave, took a few steps forward, and then pointed back to Dave. "He left your apartment building this morning!"

That statement, of course, was like pouring gas on a fire. Penelope's lips thinned as she delivered a glare that could put the Hotchner Death Stare to shame. "First of all, Kevin Lynch, you have no business coming into _my_ workplace and making baseless accusations in front _my_ colleagues. Secondly, what gives you the right to _spy_ on me at six-thirty in the morning? Thirdly, David Rossi is a decent, honorable man. He is kind and generous…far more that _you_ have been!"

Dave winced, because the thing he had been skillfully avoiding for the past ten months—being held responsible for the implosion of the Garcia-Lynch relationship—was happening where everyone could witness it. He resisted the urge to rub his temples; he was going to have a killer headache no matter what he did.

He looked up just in time to see Hotch approach Garcia and place a gentle hand on her shoulder. Hotch was about to say something when Penelope turned to face him. "I apologize, sir, for Analyst Lynch's inappropriate behavior." Her words were stiff and formal. Her chin was lifted and her cheeks were stained red; clearly, she was humiliated. "I assure you, sir, that something like this will _never_ happen again." She turned her glare to Lynch, who took a step backward. Her tone was icy as she continued, "If Analyst Lynch _deigns_ to find his common sense, he will not only apologize profusely to you, sir, for this unnecessary disruption, but also apologize to this entire _unit_ for this _spectacle_ he created. He will also throw himself at the mercy of Agent Rossi for this…this… _insult to his honor!_ "

With that, Penelope spun on her heels and brushed past Hotch. Dave could imagine her storming past Hotch's office, down the stairs and out the door, Prentiss and JJ dashing after her in a show of feminine camaraderie.

Hotch's face shifted from neutral to lethal and Lynch took another step back. The technical analyst gulped loudly, "You don't understand, sir. You see…"

"Mister Lynch, you have wasted enough of _my_ time, Agent Rossi's time, and my entire unit's time with this," Hotch interrupted coldly. "Get out of this office _now_ else I will report you to your supervisor for inappropriate conduct."

"Yessir," Lynch stammered meekly and then bolted past Hotch.

There was a pause and then Hotch took a few steps inside of Dave's office. He reached for the door and started to close it just as Morgan barged in, grabbed the door from Hotch and shut it.

"Morgan," Hotch warned.

"What the _hell,_ man?" Morgan demanded, clearly ignoring the unit chief.

"Morgan," Hotch repeated.

Dave held his hand up. "What happened is that I got a call at two o'clock in the goddamn morning by a teammate who just wanted to hear someone's voice." He folded his hands in his lap as he turned his attention to Morgan. "But you see? The last time I got one of those, I sat on my ass at home and talked to that person until about four in the morning. When the person didn't show the next day? I sent some probie over to check. You know what the probie found? A dead agent and a suicide note thanking me for 'being there'. So you bet your ass I went over there because I wasn't taking a goddamn chance." He got to his feet, picked up his coffee mug, and looked at about Morgan and Hotch. "Why did Garcia call me? You'll have to ask her."

With that, he walked out of his office and went down for coffee. He wondered who would approach him first.

He wondered if whatever he had with Penelope—and, hell, he wasn't sure what it was—could somehow be salvaged.

_**/***/** _


	11. Muffins, Yum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Six weeks ago, Lynch had publicly accused Dave of sleeping with Penelope. A week after that, Penelope ended the relationship. 
> 
> However, whatever Dave had with Penelope—and hell, he wasn't sure to call it besides comfortable, fulfilling, and some of the best evenings in recent memory—no longer existed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers for "The Internet is Forever".
> 
> WARNING: Discussion of sexual deviancy. Graphic language

Dave wasn't quite sure when it all happened. One day, he dealt with UnSubs who kept written journals, Polaroids and the occasional snuff film on Super 8. The next? There was a whole bunch of sickos out there with their web pages upon web pages of fucked up shit for the entire goddamn world to see.

The sons of bitches posted their perversions all over. There were whole goddamn _communities_ for specific fetishes and they could log on to chat rooms and exchange techniques and favorite sites. Like to fuck frozen cunt? Click here. Wanna jack off to little girls tarted up in Catholic school uniforms? Click there. Wanna see little boys going potty? Check out this site.

Sure, that crap had _always_ been around, but never so readily available.

And people wondered why the hell Dave hated technology.

When some whacko used it to hunt his victims? It pissed Dave off even more not only because the UnSub _used_ the Internet, but also because people posted so much about their personal lives that Facebook and MySpace and Twitter became like the modern day Sears Catalogues for perverts.

It was that fire that kept Dave going in Boise, Idaho as some fuckwad used the Internet to broadcast his murders. The lead detective, Fordham, was the type of officer Dave hoped to work with on every case. Thorough. Knowledgeable. Disciplined. It wasn't his fault that pieces got leaked out to the media; it was the fault of technology.

What Dave wasn't expecting was the entire Team except Reid to flip out over watching the live feed of a woman about to be killed. Oh, they didn't flip out in obvious ways, but tempers were shorter, their features set harder, their words bitten off more sharply…their usual over-protectiveness of Reid in overdrive.

_Jesus fucking Christ_ Reid even had an escort to the bathroom! There was part of Dave who wanted to tease Morgan about being the Piss Boy—"What? Does Reid make you 'wait for the shake'?"—and perhaps a few months ago he would have.

Now? Morgan was likely to deck him. Six weeks ago, Lynch had publicly accused Dave of sleeping with Penelope. A week after that, Penelope ended the relationship. That same week, Penelope made damn sure that everyone in the BAU knew that it wasn't Dave's fault at all, that the relationship had gone sour long before that fateful evening Dave came over and spent the night. Dave had been absolved of his 'sin' but whatever he had with Penelope—and hell, he wasn't sure what the fuck to call it besides comfortable, fulfilling, and some of the best evenings in recent memory—no longer existed.

The thing they cultivated since sitting vigil over Hotch in the hospital evaporated.

Gone were the post-case conversations where they would just _talk_. Or not. When he could make dinner and she would watch him. When he would take her out and show her off because he was proud to have such a lovely lady on his arm, even if technically she wasn't his to show off.

A case like this? With the Team acting wonky over Reid for no reason he could think of? Dave would find an empty office, dial his Kitten, and find out what was going on. He supposed he could do that now, but the warmth in her voice and that specific teasing tone that she only used with him would not be there. No. She would be quick. Efficient.

It wasn't what he wanted to hear, so it was better if he didn't call at all.

If Penelope wanted to resume their relationship, it was her decision.

It really was.

As much as Dave didn't want it to be.

**/***/**


	12. Standing on the Precipice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When a case hits Dave hard, Penelope tries to pick up the pieces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set between "The Internet is Forever" and "Our Darkest Hour"

Her name was Adrianna Maria Valeri, but "everybody" called her Dria. Fourteen years old with classic Italian looks. Active in the Church. Volunteered at the nursing home where her grandfather had been a patient although he had passed away a year ago. Not super-popular in school but not an outcast. She had decent grades and English was her best class.

And when she was asked to tell her story, she didn't want to talk to Prentiss or JJ. Dria pointed to Dave and asked to speak to him, which was unusual because female rape victims tended to speak to women. It only took a few seconds for Dave to figure out why, though. The whole "still volunteers at the nursing home" was a dead giveaway. Dave sat down with the girl and listened, even if he suddenly felt ancient.

And when she asked if she could sketch his portrait as she talked, he gave his permission with a warm smile. Ten minutes later, she handed him a drawing with Dave in an FBI vest, his gun aimed at a guy on his knees and his hands on top of his head.

"That's the man who hurt me," Dria said quietly as she set the pen down.

Dave wanted to say how amazed he was by her talent. The details were amazing, her technique impeccable. The profiler in him recognized all the elements in the drawing and translated the meanings. She trusted him to find the bad guy. He fingered the edge of the paper.

"I'm honored," he told her sincerely as he held the paper carefully. He hated what he was about to ask for, but he knew it was necessary. "Can you do one more thing? Can you sketch the guy by himself?"

"Of course," she answered and three minutes later, she handed him another piece of paper, her attacker facing forward like a mug shot. She even had him holding the placard with "Savannah Police Department".

"Thank you, Adrianna," he said as he inspected the sketch, committing it to memory before handing it over to Prentiss who had stayed in the back of the room.

"The only person who ever called me Adrianna was my nonno," the girl told him solemnly.

"Would you prefer I call you Dria?"

She shook her head and then fiddled with her pen. She offered him a warm smile as she said, "I don't mind Adrianna."

Two days later, Adrianna was dead, brutally murdered and dumped in a trashcan. _Snitch_ had been carved into her face. And when they caught the UnSub—a garbage man who used his route to scout out his victims—Dave slammed the bastard down hard against a Buick, leaving a dent in trunk. The local LEOs turned a blind eye. So did Morgan.

Dave attended her funeral, staying in the back of the church. He didn't go to the wake. He didn't go to the graveside service. He didn't speak to anyone when he returned to the BAU two days after the team. Earlier that day, he shut the door in Hotch's face when the unit chief asked if he was okay.

He definitely wasn't okay, and there was no way in hell he was going to spill his guts even if he considered Hotch his best and closest friend. Hotch was the only friendship Dave hadn't managed to royally fuck up.

Things still hadn't changed between him and Penelope. They had a working relationship, but it was still that cool distance and polite formality from back when he first rejoined the team.

He wanted to take solace in Penelope's company, but he couldn't do that now.

She was still Technical Analyst Garcia.

He was Agent Rossi.

The bourbon he kept in his office still tasted like crap.

He could really go for a nice glass of Conti Zecca Nero, but he couldn't even enjoy that anymore, because sometime during the evolution of his relationship with Penelope, it had become "their" wine.

Stupid as hell. Really stupid, if he thought about it.

He didn't want to think about it, because never in his life had he assigned the possessive "theirs" to something like wine, a movie or, God forbid, mini-golf.

The door to his office opened.

"Goddamn it, Hotch," Dave snarled without looking up, because Hotch was the only one who had the balls to enter without knocking. "I said back the fuck off." He looked up, ready to get out of his chair and slam the door on his friend's face a second time that day. It was after hours. No one would see.

Actually, he didn't give a shit if people _did_ see.

Penelope stood there, dressed in one of his favorite ensembles: low-cut floral retro dress that hugged her curves, forest green cardigan, dark hose and black patent leather heels that gleamed in the low light of his office. Her ruby lips were pursed. A hand settled on her hip. "You're taking me to Citronelle's for dinner. Our reservations are at eight."

He stared.

She lifted her chin.

He knew that look.

She was determined.

He wanted to rally. He wanted to fight. Instinct was to turn her away and he knew precisely how to do it. She'd never speak to him again.

The words stuck in his throat.

"If you're good, I'll even let you drive." She dangled the keys to Esther in front of him, because she knew how much he enjoyed classic cars.

He licked his lips. He paused. He ended up saying, "How the hell did you get reservations at Citronelle?"

"Open Table dot Com," she retorted as she marched over to his desk. "I hacked their online reservation system." She pulled open his desk draw, yanked out the bottle of bourbon, picked up his untouched glass of booze, and carefully poured it back in. "C'mon."

"I'm shitty company, Pen," he told her.

"No kidding, Mister Sourpants, which is _precisely_ the reason you're taking me out," she retorted as she plunked the empty glass down. "Don't make me say what all this means, buster," Penelope continued, echoing his words from oh so many months ago, when he'd bullied her in to having dinner with him.

He didn't answer. He scowled.

Penelope then leaned forward, forefinger touching the edge of the plastic that was on his blotter. Dave couldn't bear to look down. Her voice softened. "I heard about this." She traced the edge of the sheet. "Adrianna drew that for you. It's…it's…" She couldn't finish the sentence.

The original was still in evidence, but Dave had made a photocopy before he'd turned it in. Her parents said he could have the original once the trial was over. Her parents even _forgave_ him for not catching the bastard sooner, for allowing that piece of shit to carve up their beautiful daughter. There was a first time for everything, but hearing "God's will" in relation to Adrianna's death was galling.

It fanned his anger. It made Dave pulled out her crime scene photo and placed it on top. Penelope gasped and took a step back. " _This_ is Adrianna," he snapped and held it up to her face. " _This_ is that little girl who drew me being a goddamn _hero_."

She grabbed the photo and flung it across the room. She placed her foot on the armrest of his chair and pushed him backwards, startling him. Tears were in her eyes as she balled her fists. "You _are_ a hero. You caught him!"

"Adrianna's dead!" he shouted and rocketed to his feet, rage surging through his system.

Penelope didn't flinch. "Yes, she is. And I'm so, so sorry that she is. But you don't own the exclusive rights to mourn her, David. Everyone is torn up about it. Everyone! But you? Your ego? Your ego makes you think you can save everyone! You can't! You know that!" She poked his chest with each word. "You can't!"

He dialed up his best, most vicious sneer. "How fucking _dare_ you…"

Her palm cracked sharply against his cheek, the blow hard enough to turn his head a little. Penelope's tone was low, angry. Ferocious. "I _will_ dare." Tears spilled down her cheeks. "I _will_ dare, David Rossi, because you're too stupid to know when to get your head out of your own patootie!"

Dave stared. He raised a hand to where she smacked him, surprised at the lingering warmth from the slap. He expected her to be shocked at her own violent outburst, because it truly wasn't something he could have ever guessed to be in Penelope's repertoire. Yet she met his gaze unwavering, chin lifted and hands fisted at her sides.

His own anger dissolved to a dull ache in his chest. Dave looked away first, staring down at his feet as humiliation welled up.

The first thing he thought of was, _Thank God she didn't hit me with her purse_. He knew he would have a concussion if she did. Dave wanted to say he was sorry, but it was like his vocal chords had frozen. He continued to stare at the ground, chastened.

Penelope was right. He was letting his ego get the better of him. And Dave had seen far too many good, decent agents go down the path he was currently on and never turn back. Never recover.

Gideon quickly came to mind.

Dave wondered if those agents ever had someone to literally slap sense into them. If they did, he wondered if they actually listened.

He had a choice.

If he turned Penelope away, she would never make the offer again. He knew that.

Dave cleared his throat, still unable to meet her gaze. "I fucking hate Citronelle's. It's too goddamn pretentious."

There was a long pause. Finally, "There's a Thai noodle shop near my place." Her voice was soft, warm. Just like she used to sound before everything went to Hell. "We can get take out and then watch _Manos: The Hands of Fate._ "

He glanced up. "That one of those Misty Kay things?"

"If you mean MST3K?" Her smile was brilliant. "As in, _Mystery Science Theater Three Thousand_? Then, yes." She held out her hand. "Let's go."

_**/***/** _


	13. The Pity Rule

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There were rules. Really. There were rules.Ones that, despite what people thought about David Rossi, he did abide by.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set immediately after "Standing on the Precipice"

There were rules.

Really.

There were rules.

Ones that, despite what people thought about David Rossi, he did abide by.

The "pity fuck" rule with someone he knew was, granted, a later addition, but one he did his damnedest to keep.

Even when a woman whom he desired greatly, one whom he had cultivated an actual _relationship_ with, propositioned him for a second time.

All Penelope said was, "I take it movies aren't something you normally indulge in after a case," as they watched the epically bad _Manos The Hand of Fate,_ a movie even wise-cracking robots couldn't make interesting.

Her comment, if he really thought about it, was the most complicated post-case, "holy shit you've had a really bad one" comment he had ever heard from any woman.

It was a comment that he would have normally quipped something fancy or endearing or smart or something.

One to which he would have never replied, "Nah. I usually pick up some random woman in a bar and we fuck."

It wasn't elegant.

It wasn't what he meant to say.

Still, he said it anyway, with a bowl of microwave popcorn in his lap and a Diet Coke to his right. No booze involved. He didn't care.

And _that_ was what scared the fuck out of him the most.

He didn't care.

"I'm wearing garters."

Which, normally, would have him salivating because goddamn it, it was one of his few kinks. High heels, back-seam stockings and garters.

And Penelope Garcia definitely knew how to work all three.

"Any other day?" he said, eyeing the glass of Diet Coke. "Any other day and I'd be worshiping at your Y." It was a crude thing to say, yes. Definitely not worthy of the woman sitting next to him.

The woman who offered him solace.

"Today? Today, I'm at the corner of Limp Dick and What the Fuck, and I don't know which way to goddamn turn." Dave wished he could blame alcohol or a concussion or asbestos or _something_ for his blunt words, but he couldn't. Stone cold sober and locked into a fit of self-hatred.

"How about Forgiveness Avenue?" Penelope asked as she placed her hand on his thigh. "Do you need directions?"

"Goddamn it," Dave muttered. When she didn't move her hand, he grabbed her wrist and put it back in her lap. "I meant what I said about pity fucks."

"Oh, and just randomly picking up some floozy in a bar is different _how_?" she demanded with an edge in her voice. A tone that Dave knew signaled the beginning of an argument.

He scowled. He put the popcorn bowl on the coffee table in front of him. He stared at the floor as he said bitterly, "Some floozy in a bar wouldn't give a shit why I'm in the goddamn bar in the first place. Some floozy wouldn't know or care how goddamn _old_ I fucking feel right now. I wouldn't _care_ that she didn't care. It would nameless, anonymous sex. It wouldn't mean anything emotionally except that I can still get it up."

"So this is all about your ego?"

"You're goddamn right it is!" Dave shouted as he stood up. "It's about my ego. You can't do this job without one. Surely you've noticed that by now!"

Penelope rocketed to her feet. "And that ego of yours…"

And with those words, Dave's brain shut off. Because he heard those words so many times from every single person he ever had tried to have a serious relationship with. His ego was to blame for all the failures.

All of them.

The only thing that kept his mouth shut was experience.

The only thing.

So he stormed over to the coat rack, took his jacket, yanked it on, and left.

Because he knew how all the arguments ended.

And he was not in the mood to put up with it.

/***/


	14. Reverse Engineering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was the third decision Dave had to make tonight on an evening where he felt bone-tired and inadequate…impotent even because he hadn't been able to save Adrianna.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Season 5, set between "The Internet is Forever" and "Our Darkest Hour". Immediately follows "Standing on the Precipice" and "The Pity Rule"

Dave already pounded down one shot of bourbon and poured himself a second. He knew better than to take this approach and had seen one too many agents succumb to addiction. He set the glass down, undid a few more buttons of his shirt, picked up his drink again, and then plopped down in the recliner.

God. What was he doing?

_You stopped yourself before you had_ _**that** _ _argument. You know, the one about your ego. The one in which you get so riled up and hell bent on winning that you drag out your opponent's dirty laundry?_

He put the glass of bourbon on the end table.

_All you had to say was, 'Not tonight, Kitten,' and she would have backed off. But no. You had to go all macho, foul-mouth world class asshole and attack the one person who was offering you comfort_.

Wife Number One used to call it his "martyrdom" trick.

Suddenly, there was a loud banging on his front door followed by Penelope's clear, angry voice. "Open this door, David Rossi, or I swear to God I will make sure to wake up all _your_ neighbors!"

He stared at the front door. He wasn't expecting her to _follow_ him home. Dave didn't move. The porch lights weren't on. The rest of the house was relatively dark. He could pretend he wasn't here (like a coward) or he could open the door and deal with Penelope.

Cowardice was winning until she pounded on the door again. "I know you're in there! You have a GPS tracker built into your phone so we can locate you when you're in the field."

Dave fucking _hated_ technology.

He didn't move.

That was when the sharp blast of an air horn made him jump out of his seat. Not a car horn. Not a whistle. A goddamn _air horn_ and Jesus fucking Christ the thing was loud.

And damn, Penelope knew how to get what she wanted. He rushed to the door and yanked it open, ready to give her all sorts of hell for blasting an air horn in his neighborhood after midnight.

She didn't give him a chance.

Penelope busted right in, the wheels to her overnight bag rolling over his toes. She stomped over to the staircase, turned and faced him. She had been crying, her mascara smudging around her eyes and faint trails of black down her pale cheeks. Her purse and handle of her bag were in one hand and the small air horn in the other.

She looked furious.

She looked stunning.

She pointed towards the stairs. "You will march your fanny up those stairs, go to your bedroom and put on your jammies. You will then get into bed. I will change into my own jammies and join you. There can be hugs. There can be cuddles. But there will be no hanky-panky. Capice?"

Dave stared, speechless. Because in all his life, he never had a woman chase him down, barge into his house, and then order him like that. He recognized the words, the same ones he used when she had asked him to make things 'go away for awhile' after that case in Alaska. It wasn't an offer a sex. It was an offer of comfort.

It was the third decision he had to make tonight on an evening where he felt bone-tired and inadequate…impotent even because he hadn't been able to save Adrianna.

He could get Penelope to leave. He knew how to do that. What to say. How to say it. Sadly, it wasn't that hard to do.

But she'd tracked him down to his home, used a goddamn _air horn_ to make him open the door, and then she made the exact same offer to him that he had made to her after Alaska.

No woman had ever done that before.

Ever.

Dave Rossi screwed up a lot of things in his life, but this? _This?_

He couldn't. Not this.

His eyes burned. He scowled. He closed the door, locked it, and set the security system. He left his bourbon on the end table as he passed by her and went up the stairs. He heard the click of her heels and the thump of her wheeled case behind him. Once in his bedroom, he pulled out his pajamas and went into the master bathroom. It only took him a few minutes to change and brush his teeth.

When he was finished, he ventured out. He could hear her in the hall bath. He sighed. Dave turned off all the lights except the one on 'her' side of the bed, and got beneath the covers. He waited, closing his eyes and listening as she rustled around the bedroom, zipped things open and closed, and padded over to the bed. He felt her crawl in and arrange the pillows.

He felt the back of her fingertips gently glide down his cheek. Comforting not rousing. "I can read you a bedtime story if you like."

He opened his eyes. He looked over. She held up a copy of _Green Eggs and Ham_. Dave barked out a laugh, swore under his breath, and wipes his eyes. "Christ. You carry Doctor Suess with you?"

"It always makes me smile."

Dave took her hand and gallantly kissed it. "I think I'd like to hear the Pen Garcia version of _Green Eggs and Ham_."

"You're on, mister."

/***/


	15. Ferreting Out the Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Since everything had gotten somewhat back on track, Dave decided that perhaps it was time to start with some small romantic overtures.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Kathy1C at FFNet for info about Garcia's play and LoveforPenandDerek for helping me find the ep online. Spoilers for "Reflections of Desire" – assumes that a stage play takes a minimum of 3 months pre-production before opening night. Conflictus, 2 person play Penelope top billing and Garrett Feld co-star. Hotch saw the original in New York and this is a 'variation.'

The first time after the whole Adrianna drama that Penelope turned him down for dinner, Dave didn't really think much of it. It was past eight in the evening and the case, while not as brutal as most, lasted over eleven days. Penelope simply said, "So sorry, my sweet chef, I'll have to rebook that reservation for another time."

However, the seventh time, Dave was walking down the hallway toward her lair at around six in the evening. It was a Tuesday and, since everything had gotten somewhat back on track, Dave decided that perhaps it was time to start with some small romantic overtures.

Nothing elaborate. Just little things here and there to gauge just how serious she was.

If she turned him down? No harm. No foul. But there was a way a woman flirted when she was serious about someone. Her nicknames for Morgan tended to be on the outrageous side, but her ones for Dave? Relatively tame. And she liked to put her hand on his thigh whenever they sat next to each other. That gesture indicated that she claimed him. Sitting on Derek's lap? She was just being playful. So. Yeah. Dave seriously thought he had a shot.

Penelope scurried out of her door, hastily keyed her code to lock it, and said, "I know I'm late, my scrumptious leading man!"

He couldn't help the grin that spread across his face or the swagger in his step. As he opened his mouth to shoot back some (hopefully) savvy comment, Penelope turned, her attention focused on her purse. The light on the earpiece in her left ear blinked steadily.

His belly twinged hard.

She rummaged through her purse as she continued, "Garrett, my vision, I will be there in forty-five minutes! I promise!"

Dave's left eye twitched. In the time after she finished her sentence and when she looked up, he smoothed his features into that friendly, nonplussed expression that served him well over the years.

She tilted her head quizzically at him, said "Hold on," and then plucked her earpiece out. Cupping it in her hand, Penelope smiled brightly, "I hope you're not here to tell me we have a case."

He matched her expression. He kept his tone light. "I'm here to send you home, actually." Which was the truth. He was just hoping she would be with him tonight. "But it looks like you're on you way."

"Is this about dinner? Oh, David…"

He held up a hand. "You're late. Go."

Her grin reached her eyes as she rushed forward and pecked him on the cheek. "You get home as well! Good night!"

Dave stood there, feeling like six kinds of idiot.

_You missed your chance, you dumbshit,_ he chided himself. _A woman is only going to offer and only going to take 'no' so many times._ Dave turned and headed back to his office. There was no point in going home tonight. No point in making dinner either.

He sighed. As he closed the door, the petty, jealous part of him began coming up with nicknames for Penelope's new beau. Garrett the Ferret, as juvenile and pathetic as it was, ended up being the one that stuck.

"You had your chance, old man," he said aloud as he sat heavily in his chair. "And like all good things, you blew it."

/***/


	16. The Oncoming Train

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garrett the Ferret has exclusive rights to Penelope's evenings, which annoys Dave to no end. But one little invitation changes everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set between Season 5's "Our Darkest Hour" and before Season 6's "JJ."

There were times when Dave seriously contemplated taking his letter opener and stabbing himself in the thigh in order to keep awake. Paperwork did that do him, but by God, if Dave taking on a few extra reports meant Aaron had more time with Jack in the evening? Dave would do it. Morgan felt the same way, so they had an unspoken agreement to commandeer as much paperwork as they could from Hotch.

There was an art to shanghaiing work from Hotch, and because the man was loathe to ask for help on the mundane things. JJ was part of their scheme, because she could go into the unit chief's office, mess with Hotch's files, and walk out with the ones Morgan and Rossi asked for. Hotch knew full well what was going on, but he didn't balk because it was JJ.

There was a lot, which meant Dave handed off some to Morgan and he began taking it home with him. Yes, it meant breaking a rule he set for himself almost twenty years ago, that the Job stayed at the Job and not at home.

But his home was empty and silent.

And rather than brooding aimlessly in the evenings, especially Tuesdays, he at least could focus his anger and frustration on the drudgery of bureaucracy.

Especially tonight, because it was a goddamn _Tuesday_.

Tuesday's used to be _his_ day with Penelope.

_Used to be_ , Dave's brain mocked. _Garrett the Ferret now has exclusive rights to every fucking day of the goddamn week. Could have been yours … could have been yours …._

He slugged down the half-glass of bourbon, wincing as it burned down this throat. _Never drink and profile_ , his inner voice primly reminded him. To which he said aloud, "Fuck that," and poured another.

Dave sighed. He closed the file and set it aside. He paused before reaching for the next one. It was late. Starting another file meant another two hours and it was fast approaching ten. He stared at the stack of mail he'd retrieved from his PO Box on the way home; it was a full week's worth.

He began sorting through it, tossing the advertisements and offers for credit cards. He came across a thick white 6" x 9" envelope with his name and address elegantly handwritten in fountain pen. It was from one of the local theaters the regulars simply referred to as The 'Gate, which he was a regular supporter of for over two decades. The reason he became a patron—Tabitha Samuels, whom he dated between Wives One and Two—had long left the group to manage a theater in Toronto, but he never stopped sending checks even if he hadn't been to a production since he returned to the BAU.

He pulled out the contents, noting the high rag count of the stationary and skimming over the letter thanking him for his contributions over the years. There was also an invitation to "Friends of the Theater" cocktail reception and the opportunity to meet the cast and crew for their latest production, _Conflictus_. When Dave saw the glossy promotional card, his mouth nearly dropped open.

_Starring Penelope Garcia and Garrett Feld_.

Garrett the Ferret.

Pen's "scrumptious leading man."

It couldn't be _that_ easy.

It couldn't be.

/***/

Dave waited until five-thirty before he packed up his things and headed towards Penelope's lair. He briefly thought about just showing up at the 'Gate's shindig without warning her, but ultimately decided against it. She kept this from the team, which he thought was initially odd—wasn't scoring the lead in a play something one would brag about?—until he learned more about the actual play.

They all had their ways of dealing with the Job. Hell, Dave _published books_ about it. Who was he to judge?

He knocked and waited for her to bid him welcome. She was in the process of shutting her systems down, but she paused when she saw him. "What brings you to my castle, dearest profiler?"

Dave closed the door behind him before fishing out the invitation from his jacket pocket. He handed it to her as he said, "I've been a patron of the 'Gate for almost twenty years. You know, one of those 'silent' ones, which is why my name is never listed in the programs."

Penelope's eyes widened. Her hand flew to her mouth. The invite dropped to the floor. "David …"

He smiled gently. "Congrats on the lead."

For a moment, she didn't say anything. Then, "You're not going to tell anyone, are you?"

"Your secret is safe with me, Kitten." He bent down to pick up the papers. "We're all entitled to our private lives outside of here. However, I would like to take a certain leading lady out to dinner tonight."

"Rehearsal," she stammered.

"Coffee then. Afterwards."

"David …"

"Is it because you're dating Garrett Feld?"

"What? No!" She took a step back. She shook her head. "He's my co-star. He's married." She then tilted her head and narrowed her eyes. "Is that why … is that why you've been Mister Grumpy Pants? Because you thought … Garrett was my beau?"

"You did call him your scrumptious leading man. What else was I supposed to think?"

"But …"

"This thing between us." Dave gestured between them. "It hasn't been the same since that mess with your ex." When she opened her mouth, he held up a hand. He was genuinely surprised when she didn't say anything, so he continued, "The only thing I'm sure about this thing between is us that we're sitting on a fence." He lowered his hand, resisting the temptation to stuff it in his pocket. "The question is: which side do you want to be on?"

Penelope took two steps forward and reached out, grabbing his right hand. She tilted her head _justso_. "Kiss me, David Rossi."

And so he did. Gentle. Respectful. The Old School way because, goddamn it, he was going to do it _right_ this time. He broke away, reaching up and stroking her cheek with the back of his hand.

She opened her eyes, smiled serenely, and then slid her hand up to his face. Her thumb brushed across his lips. "Coral is so not your color."

He laughed. "C'mon then. You've got a play to rehearse for."

/***/


	17. Supposed to be...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> David Rossi wanted that first time with Penelope to be perfect. To be what the other first times hadn't been. It was supposed to be romantic. Beautiful. It wasn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set after S6's "JJ"

Their consummation was supposed to be on the opening night of her play, after she received the standing O for her amazing performance (chilling as hell, but Dave never dwelled on that). A light dinner, carriage ride through the city, a bundle of long-stemmed roses, a suite at the Willard, and champagne that was older than he was.

David Rossi wanted that first time with Penelope to be perfect. To be what the other first times hadn't been. It was supposed to be romantic. Beautiful.

Not awkward or desperate or fumbling.

Not _Holy God, JJ has been taken from us_.

JJ wasn't dead. Thank God. No. Not dead.

Just transferred.

But Dave's years in the Bureau made him realize that dead, in this case, could be considered better. There wouldn't be that horrid sense of betrayal when they slowly lost contact. When the grind of the FBI and the grind of the State Department (greedy fucking bastards they were) would never sync up.

JJ was lost to them in that horrid limbo of, "We'll see each other next weekend," knowing that "next weekend" really meant sometime next year. Mayb e never. It just the was it was.

Penelope clung to him.

He clung to her.

They ended up in his bed.

It was, perhaps, the worst sex he'd had in his adult life. The 'teen years didn't count because that was just a bunch of fumbling around and shooting his load before he was supposed to.

Still.

It was bad.

He couldn't get her off.

She couldn't get him off.

They just laid in bed together, silent in their frustrations. "Sorry," he finally said, because he was the man and all. He would take the blame. He had to.

"If it were easy, it wouldn't be worth it," she murmured as she curled around his arm.

He blinked, surprised at the absolution. "Pen …"

"If the first time was the best ever, wouldn't the rest of the times be a disappointment?"

Dave laughed. Out loud. Hard enough to bring tears to his eyes. "Jesus Christ."

Pen rolled on her side, sheets tangled around her in an oddly demure way. She looked at him. "We'll get better."

"I wanted it to be perfect," he admitted as he cupped her cheek.

"Aw, my beloved Italian Stallion," Pen cooed with a gentle yet wicked smile, "perfection means it can't get any better." She tugged at the sheet around his waist. "I'd rather work up to that, no?"

_Beloved._

The word stopped Dave momentarily.

_Beloved_.

Oh. God. The words were out before he could stop them. "I love you."

Her smile went from naughty to … Christ. He couldn't even catalog her expression. "I love you, too, David Rossi." She kissed him hard, thoroughly. "I love you, too."

***/***


End file.
